The Distant Cartograph
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down against the stained glass, a relentless, muddy hand trying to wipe away the light that had once illuminated the nave of St. Jude’s. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, old candle wax, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that seems to permeate stone when a soul is on the verge of breaking. Elara sat on the cold flagstones,...
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